Drive Me Crazy
by clair beaubien
Summary: Pre-Series. Sam's second semester at college. Dean realizes how alike Sam and Dad really are. Up now: Ch2 - Dean goes to Stanford to take care of his little brother. Please note: story has become WIP.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I got the idea for this from "Swap Meat" when Sam stole the toast off the mother's plate.

* * *

Really, the toast should've clued me in.

Dad had come back from his trip out to Reno and some supposed ghost in the 'Bowling Hall of Fame' that turned out to be nothing. We shared a couple shots of whiskey while Dad asked what had gone on in his absence and I told him about some likely hunts I'd found. Then I turned in while Dad stayed up with a book and the TV remote.

Sam does that, 'multitasking' he'd call it. He can read a book, watch TV, and carry on a conversation all at the same time. Drives me crazy. I thought maybe I should call the kid. We hadn't talked in a week…eight days, but who was counting? It was his turn to call but he was in his second semester of college and things were no doubt busy. I fell asleep thinking maybe tomorrow I'd call him.

The next morning Dad and I had breakfast at the diner attached to the motel. I got the _Trucker's Special_ and Dad had pancakes and I thought that sometimes it was scary how alike Dad and Sam really are. They both like pancakes. Of course, Dad always has the full stack with lots of butter and syrup, while Sam, health-geek that he is, always gets the short stack, no butter, and actually pours his syrup on the side to _dip_ his forkful of pancake into.

Drives me crazy.

"You _are_ listening to me, aren't you?" Dad asked.

"What? Yeah. Sure. The lake is leaking."

Dad gave me The Look and clarified, "My _brakes_ are _squeaking._ You wanna follow me to the car parts place, or should I meet up with you someplace after?"

That was usually Sam's cue to choose the library or bookstore or laptop. Sure there were a lot of places I could go instead of shadowing Dad at the car place, but – what was the point of going to any of those places _alone_?

"Nah, I'll come with. I'll see if they have anything for my baby…"

"Great."

Sammy never worked on the car, but he'd sit nearby whenever I did, reading some book or another, doing his homework, handing me tools when I asked for them. Depending on what he was reading or what he'd learned or what had snagged his interest most recently, he'd lean across the fender and watch me work and regale me with little known facts and really weird trivia.

F'rinstance, did you know that kangaroos can't walk backwards? That might be useful – if we ever went to Australia. Apparently non-dairy creamer is flammable, which actually _might_ be useful sometime or another in our line of work. A really handy tip was that most alcoholic beverages contain all 13 minerals necessary to sustain human life. See, that's why I drink, for the nutrition. Oh, and Americans drink over a billion pounds of coffee every year and around five million bottles of soda - we sure do _our_ part. My personal favorite though was the startling bit of info that a whale's penis is called a dork. I haven't decided yet if the word should now be considered a compliment instead of an insult.

One thing was for sure - my life had become much quieter since Sammy went away to college.

Drives me crazy.

Some movement across the table brought my mind back to the diner and breakfast. Dad had snagged the piece of toast from my plate. Gee whiz. Somebody slip him a happy pill or something? Toast-snatching was Sammy's forté. It had been since he was in single digits, and especially since mind-boggling growth spurts turned him on most occasions into a bottomless pit. He never asked '_can I have that_?' or even '_you gonna eat that_?' Just – snatch and grab, from my plate or Dad's, sometimes both. I didn't mind because a well-fed Sam was more than likely a non-grumpy Sam. Dad didn't mind because – so I surmised – if Sam was at ease enough with Dad to take liberties, underneath it all they were still good.

I really needed to call Sam.

When we pulled into the parking lot of the car parts store, I told Dad I'd be there in a minute. We were in the same time zone and I knew Sam's schedule, so as soon as Dad was inside the store, I hit speed dial.

"Hey, Dea –" Sam's greeting was punctuated by a loud thud right in my ear and a few choice words from a distance. Guess _somebody_ dropped his phone.

"Sam? You okay there?"

"Hey, sorry. Didn't mean to drop you." He came back on the line. "Hold on a second, I need to sit down."

"Sam – you okay? You sound out of breath. Where're you running to?"

"Nowhere. Just – _thanks, I've got it. Thanks._" That got said to somebody on his side of the phone. "I just have my hands full is all, trying to get back to my dorm. What's up?"

"You haven't called. I'm just checking that you're OK."

"It wasn't my turn to call."

"It was _soooo_ your turn to call."

"Was not."

"Was too. Remember? You got mad because your phone rang in the library, like I was supposed to know you went there forty-five minutes early."

There was a pause.

"Oh. Yeah." He finally admitted. "I've been – busy. I forgot."

"Good busy I hope."

There was _another_ pause. One that I didn't like.

"_SAM?"_

"I twisted my ankle. It's nothing. Really. Just – it's nothing."

"How bad?"

"Not bad."

"_HOW_ bad?"

_Another_ pause.

Drives me crazy.

"Bad. I guess. They put an orthotic on me, not just an ace bandage. I'm on crutches." He snickered then. "You should see it. My foot is turning more colors than Dad's face did that time the motel kid asked him if he had an AARP card."

Good thing Dad wasn't around or he'd be wondering what I was laughing so hard at.

"Guess the marble hallways in those ivory towers can be dangerous." I said, when I stopped laughing. "So, what do you need?"

"What?"

"I'm coming out there, what do you need?"

He didn't say, '_nothing, I'm fine'_, he didn't rattle off a list of fussy necessities. No, for an answer, I got another _pause._

"You know what, never mind." I said. "When I get there, I'll _tell_ you what you need. I'm not even twelve hours away, I'll be there before midnight.

"Okay. Thanks. I'll see you then, then. Thanks."

Poor kid had to be really suffering to be repeating himself like that. Maybe his university health insurance didn't cover the really good drugs.

"Go back to your room, Sammy, rest your foot. I'm already packed up so I'll hit the road as soon as I let Dad know I'm going." I expected the pause I got that time; I always got one whenever I mentioned Dad. I just kept talking. "Don't worry about falling asleep, I can let myself in."

"_I know._" He answered, with more than a little experience. "All right. I'll see you then. Thanks, Dean."

We hung up and I headed into the store and nearly ran into Dad who was on his way out already. We turned and headed back to the car and truck.

"I have to go out and check Sammy. He wrecked his ankle, I'm gonna make sure he didn't permanently destroy it."

"How bad is it?"

"He said it was bad, so you know it's _very_ bad." I never got the pauses from Dad when I was talking about Sam that I got from Sam when I was talking about Dad, but I still knew better than to ask if he wanted to come with me. "I'll take him out some good painkillers. See what else he might need."

"Here, I've got some back here." Dad opened his driver's door to reach behind the seat and bring out a paper bag. "There's Vicodin in there. Some foam rubber too, in case he needs the handgrips on his crutches padded."

Well, not only was the medicine oddly convenient – who the hell ever said anything to Dad about _crutches?_

It hit me all at once – the multitasking, the pancakes, the _toast-snatching._ Dad had been deliberately making me think of Sam so that I'd call him.

_He knew._

"You _knew._" I accused him. "Stanford's only a few hours past Reno. You were out there. You knew Sam was hurt."

Dad looked embarrassed and that's something I was definitely not used to.

"I drive out whenever I can, make sure he's okay."

"Why the hell didn't you give it to him yourself?" I gestured to the bag.

"He wouldn't want to see me. Not after the last thing I said to him." He offered me the bag again. "Better it comes from you."

Idiots. My father and my brother are both stubborn idiots.

"Next time, will you just _tell_ me I should call Sam, rather than making me play '_Clue'_?"

Dad nodded.

"All right. I will. I promise."

"_Good."_ I took the bag and headed for the car, but Dad called me back.

"Hey – just – don't tell Sam, OK?"

I growled and stomped to my car.

Idiots. Stubborn _Winchester_ idiots.

_Drives. Me. Crazy. _

The End.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N 1: somehow, for some reason, I am becoming a WIP author. I don't know why. I don't like it! I like finishing stories and posting finished stories. But this chapter is already longer that three of my usual stories put together, so here it is.

A/N 2: I WON FRONT ROW SEATS AT THE NASHVILLE SPN CONVENTION! Oh my goodness! (I only bid on them for Joshua, of course. I'm a saintly mother that way!)

A/N 3: still reminding people of the Fanfic author's convention July 16th in Roanoke, VA. More info can be found at: www(dot)facebook(dot)com(slash)Xenascully?sk=app_7146470109 (I hope that comes through!) Pass the word on!

* * *

Parking at Stanford is no problem for me ever since I made the acquaintance of Pretty Patty from Parking Services. I have a permanent parking pass that gets me a spot right outside Sam's dorm whenever I want it and no questions asked.

It's just about eleven when I pull into that parking space and grab my haul for the walk up to Sam's room. I've got a bag of ice, a supply of "squish & activate" ice packs, Dad's Vicodin and foam rubber, food and soda pop, and other odds and ends that I can bet Sam needs and hasn't gotten for himself. The rest of the dorm is alive and buzzing, even this late on a 'school night', but Sammy – I know Sammy will be elbow deep in his books and studying, probably not even realizing what time it is.

Sure enough, there's a light on under his door and no sound of music or TV or hanky panky coming through. What'd I say? _Studying_.

Drives me crazy.

Sammy's got a small room, and you'd think for somebody who scored a 'full ride' they'd pony up some better accommodations. But it's all his, and he doesn't have to share and that alone I suppose is worth the cramped quarters.

The door is an easy pick & open and I'm inside in seven seconds, with my duffel bag of goodies.

Even though he's got a perfectly useable recliner over near his window, Sam's sitting next to his bed in a hard plastic chair that looks like it got swiped from a high school cafeteria, with a book across his chest and his bad foot propped up on the mattress.

_Sound asleep. _

There's so many things I could do him while he's sleeping – magic marker mustache, replace his textbook with a girlie magazine, curl his hair. But with him down for the count, any of that would be too easy to be truly satisfying. So I set the duffel down on the table that's only a little bigger than a couple of plant stands put together and unpack my stores.

I'm being quiet but still Sam should be aware enough to rouse at the noise. But he stays asleep while I bag up some ice for his ankle and put the rest in his mini fridge, and empty the food and sundries into his such-as-it-is cupboard space. He's so sound asleep I wonder if he managed to score some massive painkillers all on his own.

It isn't until I unwrap the ace bandage to pry the "L" shaped plastic thing off his foot and pull off his sock to lay that bag of ice over his ankle that he sits up in a gasp.

"Easy, Tiger." I tell him. "Just me."

"_Dean?"_

"The one and only."

He still blinks at me once or twice and misses catching his book as it clumps itself onto the floor. When I reach down to snag it for him, I see the bottle of cold medication next to the bottle of aspirin next to the chair on the floor.

He didn't mention having a cold so why does he – ?

Oh God.

"_You didn't."_ I demand.

"Din wah?" He slurs back at me. His eyes are barely open.

_Oh God - he did._

"_**You took painkillers AND medicine that has alcohol in it? Are you an idiot?" **_

He blinks at me again, giving me his '_I've_ _just been scolded and my world is collapsing because of it'_ look. Nineteen years old and he can still pout like a professional.

Drives me crazy.

"_Hurssss." _He informs me. "_Makesssop hur-ing."_

I sigh and lift the ice bag for a better look at the browns, blues, yellows, purples and greens that are decorating his still swollen ankle. Yeah, that has to hurt like a sonuvabitch. I'd try anything to make it stop hurting, too.

"Yeah, okay. I know. Just - " I settle the ice back in place and confiscate his stash. "No more of _this_. Okay? I don't want you to stop breathing. I've got good stuff for you. When _this_ is out of your system."

He mumbles something that sounds like '_yay'_ but is probably the snockered-Sammy version of '_okay'_ and then he looks down at himself and pats his chest.

"_Z'm'book?"_ He looks around a little. "_Dean? Zee'm'book? Eyezuddying."_

"I've got your book, you're done _studying_ for tonight. C'mon, beddie-bye time for little Sammies. Let's get you out of that chair and into bed."

I pull the blankets back, then maneuver the ice off his foot and his foot off the bed and his ass off the chair and onto the bed before he even seems to realize. After I put his head on the pillows and the ice back on his ankle and pull the blankets over him, I see that he's watching me through half-open eyes.

"Sleep, Sam. I'll keep checking that you're breathing."

"_Where __**you**__ gonna s'eep? Got room, y'wanna s'eep –" _

He gestures next to himself but his eyes close as his jerry-rigged narcotic cocktail wins out and he falls back to sleep before finishing the invite to share his sardine-narrow bed. Maybe when he was in _kindergarten_ we would've both fit.

_Maybe._

"Thanks, Sammy. I'll manage."

When I know he's down for the count, I pull the recliner closer so I _can_ keep an eye that he _does_ keep breathing, and settle myself in for a beer and a quiet night. I reach over and switch on his teeny TV, which is on his teeny bookshelf, next to his military-precise line up of textbooks. They're each so thick, I don't think they'd all fit in the trunk of the car.

_Introduction to the Humanities_

_Ethical Reasoning_

_Masterpieces of Contemporary Literature_

_Philosophy_

_Justice_

_The Politics of Communication_

That's my Sammy, smartest kid I ever knew. Stanford made a good choice when they chose him; I bet he runs circles around everybody else.

However, the smartest kid I ever knew doesn't get cable in his little bungalow here, so I find a local newscast because it's about the only thing that comes in clear, and I drink my beer and keep checking that he keeps breathing.

As the late-night news morphs into a late-night talk show, it hits me how comfortable this is – a crappy room, crappy reception on a crappy TV, the constant vibration of voices and footsteps from inside the building, the rumble of traffic outside.

Sammy tucked safe away in bed where I can see him and touch him and be sure he's okay.

_Man, I wish Dad was here. _

The really stupid thing is - I know Dad wishes he was here, too. And I bet deep down, _Sam_ wishes Dad was here. I'm telling you, those two could get their own chapter in _Politics of Communication_. Stubborn idiots. Stubborn, thick-headed, _Winchester_ idiots.

Drives me crazy.

Since Sam is asleep and can't give me attitude, or lip, or that combination of the two known as '_bitch face'_, I pull out my phone and call Dad. I get his voice mail, no surprise.

"Hey, it's me. I'm here. Sammy's okay, considering he tried combining painkillers with bug juice. I'm letting him sleep that off before we try the Vicodin. His ankle looks pretty messed up, I'll stay over the weekend. I'll call you when I can."

_Meaning when I'm out of earshot of Sammy._

I hang up, finish my beer while I tape the foam rubber onto the hand-holds of the crutches, and then I deck myself out for some shut eye in the recliner. While I wait to fall asleep, in a room hardly bigger than my car, I wonder how Sam can stand to be in the same room day after day after day. As far as I know, he hasn't been in a car since the last time I came to visit him. He eats the same food in the same place every day, sleeps in the same a-little-too-short bed every night, sits at the same desks with the same students in the same classrooms in the same buildings all semester. I wonder how he can stand the monotony.

Of course, most of our lives is usually three weeks of pure boredom, punctuated by thirty seven minutes of pure terror. Maybe _study-study-TEST-study-study_ is pretty much the same thing to a geek like Sammy.

Or maybe it's a monumental relief to him.

Maybe I don't want to know which one it really is.

Just once before I fall asleep, Sam mumbles in his sleep, a sound that's a cross between pain and confusion and then he settles and the rest of the night passes away quiet and uneventful.

_And then morning comes. _

I'm jostled awake by Sam bumping into the recliner on his dazed but desperate attempt to get from the bed to somewhere else in the tiny room. I'm wide awake in a second and out of the chair, following his painful limping into the unbelievably small bathroom. I don't even consider that he might be headed there for personal reasons – I recognize the gray and anguished look on his face as imminent, aggressive nausea. He's about to puke and puke _hard._

Sure enough, he barely has time to lift the lid before he's expelling yesterday's dinner _and_ lunch, and most of his internal organs it sounds like, into the toilet.

"Okay, okay." I tell him before I'm even fully in the cramped little space with him. If it was Dad – and it _has_ been Dad – I'd be asking what could I do, did he need anything. With Sam, I _know_ what I can do, and I'll _tell him_ what he needs. I put my hands on his shoulders as he bows to the throne and lightly rub across his back. "Okay, Sammy. You're going to be okay. You're –."

It's then that I see he's hurling up coffee ground emesis – _not_ a good thing.

"_SAMMY?"_

"It's OK." He manages around spitting digested blood through his teeth. "It's not – it's not – I'm okay."

"It's not _what _and you're okay _how?_"

"It's not blood." He tells me and he _damn_ well better be reading my mind because if I find out he pulled this stunt before -. "At least I don't think it's blood."

"You _don't think_? How about we _go make sure_?"

He hurls again and brings up nothing but spit, and it ends with such a pitiful moan of pain and despair, I can't even think of refusing him when, after a minute of waiting to see if it's over, he reaches to grab my arm with a sweaty hand and asks,

"Help me get back to bed? _Please_?"

He limps worse as we make the short trek from bathroom to bed, and even though I take as much of his weight as I can with his arm around my shoulders, every breath sounds too much like a whimper. Fortunately it's barely seven-Sammy-steps from bathroom to bed and he crashes onto the mattress so hard I wonder the bed frame doesn't splinter. His eyes are squeezed shut and his fists are clamped white around clumps of his blankets and he's breathing fast. I make a fast refill on his icepack and press it over his bad ankle.

"_You said – you said – you have good stuff?"_ He asks between breaths and from behind his squeezed-shut eyelids. _Right_, like I'm going to give him _Vicodin_ when I'm not sure the aspirin-and-Nyquil hooch has cleared his system yet.

"Sam –." I'm going to break the bad news to him that aspirin and ice packs are all he's getting for at least another four hours, but this is Sammy, champion of '_make Dean cave'_. .

"_Dean - please."_

He even opens his eyes to say it and he's in so much pain I can see the tears that I know he hates, no matter what causes them. Even excruciating pain.

Drives me crazy.

"All right, hold on."

I get him a glass of water and give him one of the pills. For a second I think about giving him only half a tablet, but on a kid his size that wouldn't even register. He gulps the water and pill and I have to help him sit up long enough to do it and then keep him from slamming back down onto his pillows again. He's got his eyes squeezed shut again and his hands are working at the blankets and sheet, trying to be a distraction from how much pain he's in.

And he has to gulp the pain down a few times before he can manage, "_Thanks."_.

"Yeah."

I straighten the blankets out over him and pull the recliner a couple inches closer to the bed.

"Okay, tell me again how we know you're not dying." I tell him.

"_Girl_," he gasps out, still with his eyes closed. "The girl who told me about it. Said – she said – happened t'her too."

"And was she still among the living when she told you that?" I ask. I _have_ to ask because – this is us, _I have to ask_.

"Yeah. Yeah, she's in my – she's – in – one of my classes, I can't remember."

"And she's _pre-med_? Or does she go around dispensing dubious medical advice for free?"

Sam doesn't answer at first, then he cracks a look at me like he only just realizes I was asking him something and he tries to come up with some answer.

"She's – I don't know – maybe – she's – _I don't know, I can't – I can't think."_

He grabs more blanket and sheet in his hands and twists them up, panting and in all kinds of pain.

"Okay, just relax. Never mind." I lift the blanket for a look at the ice pack over his tortured ankle, like that's actually going to tell me anything. Except maybe that I wouldn't have taken that plastic 'L' thing off if I'd known he was going to marathon himself to the bathroom. "The medicine'll be working in just awhile. Just hold on."

The story of our lives. There's never anything we want that we can have _now. _Not even pain relief.

"_Dean?_"

He doesn't open his eyes. He swallows the pain down again.

"Yeah?"

He doesn't say anything then, which means it's one of _those_ moments - pain and distress and want and hardship and loneliness and knowing I really can't make it better for him but really wanting me to try anyway.

And he knows I _will_ try, even if it costs me some tough guy points.

Drives me crazy.

I put my hand over his; he's crushing the blankets in a grip so tight his fists are white. I consider telling him a long-winded story of my latest romantic encounter, but this isn't the place to be inciting _those_ memories. Maybe I could tell him how on our last hunt in hill country in a torrential downpour, Dad lost his footing, his weapon, and pretty much his dignity in a mud-storm slide down a collapsing hillside.

But then Sam pulls his hand out of my hand only to grab it back it again in a crush and I know there's only one thing to be saying to him.

"Okay, Sammy. It's okay. I'm here. Just breathe through it. It'll start easing up in a minute. It's getting better, the pain's getting better, okay? Just pay attention to me, okay? I'm here."

"_Hurts_.".

"I know it does, I know it does. It's going away though. And when it stops hurting, you'll get some more rest. You'll get some more sleep. And everything will be okay when you wake up."

So, little by little, his face unscrunches, and he uncrushes my hand, and he relaxes out on his bed. I don't know if it's what I'm saying or if the medicine is working that fast. Dad used to say that it was just the sound of my voice that Sam responded to when he was really sick or in pain. But that's when he was a real little kid. Whatever it is now, it's working and in a few minutes Sam's asleep again.

I flick on the TV, make myself a bowl of cereal, and settle back into the recliner for a nice, slow, quiet morning of bad TV and changing Sam's ice pack.

_And then afternoon comes._

Sam explodes to sitting so fast it's like he's on springs.

"_I missed class."_

"Uh – yeah. You probably did." Because geek that he is, all of his classes are scheduled in the morning.

"_I __**can't**__ miss class._".

"Well, I think you _did_.".

"_No." _He pushes back the blankets and moves like he thinks I'm going to let him stand up, much less run to a class that's already over, and I push him back to keep him sitting right there.

"_Yes_ – '_no'._" I tell him. "You're not going anywhere on that ankle but bed or the hospital."

"_Dean,_" he starts in. I know that tone, I know what comes next: '_please'_ and '_really, you don't understand', _puppy dog eyes, and plaintive complaints about needing to get notes and assignments and apples for the teacher.

Nobody can make me cave like Sammy can, and he knows it.

"Go ahead, _try me_." I tell him. "You know you're not going anywhere. You so much as _think_ of giving me a problem, and you won't be getting out of this bed to _pee._"

And nobody can resist Sammy's pleas like I can. _And he knows it._

He collapses back onto the bed with a growl of aggravation that morphs into a grimace of pain and I grab him another painkiller and glass of water.

"So, what's it gonna be?" I ask as I help him 'med up' again.

"_Jerk."_

"You're welcome. _Biiiitch."_

When I put the pill bottle and glass aside, I pick up the plastic foot thing.

"Will this thing make it better?"

"What? What thing?" He looks up and tries to get his eyes to focus. "Oh. Yeah. I guess. Maybe. I don't know. Thanks."

I resist tickling his foot because I'm an awesome brother. And because he's too drugged to notice enough to make it worthwhile. I attach the thing with the Velcro tabs and leave the ace wrap off so the ice can reach his ankle when I set the bag back in place.

"How's that?" I ask after a minute, after I let the ice if not the drugs have some time to start making a dent.

"That's -." He lets out a long sigh. " - _yeeeaaah…_" And he melts into the mattress again.

For about one more minute when the pouting starts up again.

"But Dean - really. I need to get notes for my classes. There's quizzes and response papers and homework and -."

_Drives me crazy._

"So? Call one of the other students in class. They'll share, won't they?"

He takes another minute to answer, and even though he shrugs and mutters, "Yeah, they will, I guess," he looks away from me too, which means something entirely different than what he's saying.

"You haven't made any friends, have you?" I ask. "There's nobody you can think of to call."

He clears his throat and twists at the blanket and still doesn't look at me.

"It's - uh - I just- it's busy. All the time. I don't - I don't - _no_."

You have got to be kidding me. I can sympathize, friends were never my forte at any stage of school, but with that face Sam's giving me right now, used on the right college demographic, this kid could have a _harem_ without even trying. I'm surprised the girls aren't beating on his door already, wondering why he didn't show up to class. But no, Little Sammy Winchester who could charm anything out of anyone without even meaning to just by turning those eyes on them, thinks there's _no one_ he can ask for class notes.

Fortunately, I know better.

"Okay, so what's the name of the girl who you took a class with _last_ semester who all of sudden registered late for one of your classes _this_ semester, who always sits near you and twirls her hair when she says '_hi'_, and is always asking if you can explain the simplest things in the book to her?"

He looks at me like I'm sprouting a third eye.

"What - you mean Hilda? Or Blanche? Or - well, there's Enid and Francesca, but I didn't take classes with them last semester, and Francesca doesn't twirl her hair. Anyway, how'd you know about _them_?"

If he was vertical, and not in pain, I'd smack him across the back of the head for being so dense. Instead of a lengthy explanation on the workings of the female mind, I shrug and offer,

"Big brothers know everything. Therefore - I also know they've slipped you're their phone numbers somewhere along the line. So cough up the one you'd most like to get notes from and I'll take care of it for you."

He's still looking at me like I'm purple or he's crazy. Or like I'm all-knowing and he's pissed because of it.

"My contemporary lit binder. Her number's on the inside. Francesca."

_**Yes**__ - Francesca_. Much better prospects than _Enid, Hilda, or Blanche._

"Great. Let's get some lunch in you and when you go back to napland, I'll give her a call."

Sammy pushes himself up on his elbows.

"What're going to say to her?" He asks it like he's afraid I'm going to obscene-phone-call her, and I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes.

I pull my phone out and pull his binder off the bookshelf and _my_ _God,_ _the thing weighs a ton_. When I open it up, I see why. He's got about as many binder dividers as he's got pages. Each class date has its own divider, then each date is subdivided into '_class notes', 'ideas', 'further reading', 'homework'_, and '_study'_.

_Drives. Me. Crazy._

But there, taped - _OCD_ _neatly completely_ - on the inside cover is a square of paper inscribed with not only a phone number, but an email address and regular street address, signed - _flowingly - _by _Francesca_.

I dial her up and get her voicemail.

'_Hi, you've reached Francesca. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'_

Even her _voice_ is flowing and deep. _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy - did I really teach you so little about girls_?

"Hey, this is Dean, Sam Winchester's brother. He wrecked his ankle and won't be making it to class for a couple of days and is -"

I'm going to say '_and is freaking out over missing some notes'_ but the look he's giving me, worried and anxious and '_please don't be snarky'_ make me change my mind.

" - and is going to need notes from the classes he's missing. If you can help him, give me a call back. Thanks."

I hang up and put my phone away and muscle his binder back into place.

"Happy?"

"Yeah. Yeah - okay - thanks." He collapses back onto his pillows. "Did you have lunch?"

"Yeah, I nuked myself a couple of your burritos you got in your fridge there. Think your stomach could handle that? Or maybe some of the yogurt would be better?"

The greenish shadow that crosses his face tells me neither sound like good ideas to him.

"Saltines and ginger ale?" I offer then.

"_Thank you."_

So, a few minutes, a few tugs to get him upright against his pressed-board headboard, and Sammy has a can of ginger ale in one hand and a sleeve of saltines across his lap.

And suddenly, having a conversation with him is harder than I ever remember it being.

"So - how'd you wreck your ankle, anyway? Probably not chasing girls, I'm thinking."

He rolls his eyes, but then huffs a nervous laugh and shakes his head.

"I was running but - just running. I've never been so not active before, you know? So Monday morning I went out running, out before dawn. Just to run, just to _move_. You know? I've done it before, lots of times. But there was a wet spot on the pavement where I was going around a corner and my foot went one way and my ankle bones went the other. It hurt so bad I almost didn't make it to class on time."

As soon as he says _that_, he realizes he's dead meat. His eyes go wide, his face goes crimson, and he shoves a cracker in his mouth like that's going to stop _me_ from talking.

"_You went to class BEFORE you went to the doctor?"_

He takes a swallow of ginger ale to clear the cracker and doesn't look at me when he answers.

"He gives pop quizzes all the time. That's fifteen percent of my grade. If I miss one, even with a doctor's note, I don't get the credit for it." And then he turns _the eyes_ on me. "And we _had_ a pop quiz that morning. I would've _missed_ it."

All right, whatever. There are times it's easier to give in to _the eyes._

"Do I even want to know _when_ you finally went to the doctor?"

"I went that night, when it wasn't busy."

"_Sam -._"

"Dean - I wasn't dying. I wasn't bleeding out. You and I both know that if this had happened to _you_ on the job, we wouldn't be talking about a doctor or hospital at all. You've hunted with worse injuries than this. You and Dad both."

And fast, he eats two crackers at once like even saying Dad's name leaves a bad taste.

Or like he thinks he's not allowed to even say '_Dad'_ anymore.

"So -." He says, after he swallows the crackers. "Have you? Gotten hurt?"

"No more than usual."

"Which can mean a splinter, or it can mean emergency surgery and a blood transfusion."

"I haven't been to the emergency room." I tell him. Which isn't enough for him. Of course.

"Because you haven't needed it or because you just didn't go?"

_Drives me crazy. _

"I know you want to be a lawyer, Sammy. Just don't practice on me."

He huffs and sips some ginger ale and shakes his head. Then he looks at me, willing - _emoting_ -an answer out of me.

"I haven't _needed_ to go, all right? Everything's been okay."

"_Everyhing,_everything?" He asks, trying to ask about Dad, without asking about Dad.

"Everything is - working out."

I can't tell if he likes that answer or not.

"Yeah." He answers me. "Here, too."

Yeah, those were both totally reassuring answers. _Not._

"How's your stomach feel now?" I ask after a couple more crackers and most of the can of ginger ale are gone.

"Better. I guess. Don't feel like I'm gonna hurl again." He holds the can and crackers out to me. "Could you - would you - take these? I think I'm just gonna lie down again. For awhile."

"Sure."

I take them but only set them aside and stand up to help Sam get rearranged on the bed. I know he's still feeling like crap because he doesn't argue or complain or bitch face me as I tug the blankets from getting tangled around him and I lift his tortured ankle into a better spot when he curls onto his side into his pillows.

"Let me know if you think you need another dose."

"Okay. I should be okay. But okay."

"_Okay._" I have to answer him back, and he snorts a little laugh, catching onto my copying him.

"Hey, Dean?" He asks without looking back at me. "Later - you think maybe later we could go for a drive somewhere? Just - anywhere? Just - for a drive?"

"You bet."

"Okay." And he laughs a little again at using the same word _again_. Then he says, "I would've asked, I would've called you but I didn't know, you know, if maybe you were busy." Like anything could've stopped me. Like he has to thank me. Like I'm not just as grateful or more that he wanted me here.

Drives me crazy.

"Gotta take care of my pain in the ass little brother, now, don't I?"

"Yeah, I guess you do." He answers on a sniff. "Thanks."

I have a hard time coming up with a snappy retort. I pop open the recliner and turn up the sound on the TV a little.

"You're welcome, Sammy."

(Probably to be continued. When I get there. I make no promises!)


End file.
